He had killed
by Dagron
Summary: Guilt? Gin? No. Regret? Maybe...


**He had killed...**

_He had killed her sister._

It was a fact. A piece of their history that neither he nor she could ever change. All they could do was put it behind them, hide the thought of it in the darkest corner of their minds where they could safely ignore it and deal with their day to day lives.

But like any such unwanted thoughts, it tended to pop up when one least expected or wanted it to.

The man stared down, unmoving, as the phrase uncoiled from its forbidden corner the better to wrap itself around the rest of his mind.

"I killed her sister."

There was not much he could do to distract himself from the notion when it crept up on him like this. The dishes in the sink he was leaning over needed cleaning, but it was barely as if he noticed them. His cold blue eyes glared, unseeing, at the running water, as it fled down the drain. His right fingers were limply holding the plug he had yet to use tonight.

He shook himself in an attempt to dislodge himself from his state, which he managed to do long enough to plug the sink and fill it with soapy water. His left hand came forth to deftly shut off the tap, and then he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window above the sink and froze again.

Yes, there he was. A tall man of Japanese descent, his cheekbones were high and marked. His prominent chin was jutted out as he pulled a face at the memory of the man he once was. Where once there had been long strands of wavy, discoloured hair, he now wore a crown of short, damaged-brown locks. His long black coat and blue turtle-neck had been replaced by a creased shirt and festive jersey, and the hand that now was placed on top of the tap had not held a gun in years. Still, the impression hurt...

It had been what, fifteen years now?

It felt like it had been no time ago at all, and it felt like it had been a lifetime since. From one dark, gloomy night on the docks to one chilly winter's eve.

His eyes managed to focus on a flurry of snowflakes beyond the glass, and with a heavy sigh, he returned to his chore. Jamming the remaining dishes into the filled sink, and adding some extra soap, he decided to turn away from them for the time being and left the small kitchen to go and sit in the living room. Once there he turned off the television that he had left on and sat back on the couch, purposefully ignoring the paperwork sitting on the coffee table.

Man, had time changed him. He certainly was no longer the killer of his youth, trained to be efficient, tidy, leaving no loose ends what so ever... That didn't mean there weren't still traces of Gin in him. He was still just as observant, just as particular about the way things were. It was just that... Now he had something to distract him from all that, something that exhausted him to the point that dishes could wait. Something more efficient than those damned weekly sessions with the psychologist to squash any lust for murder and torture.

It had not been prison that had changed him. Far from it.

He should have been condemned to death row, where a knotted piece of rope and a short drop would have taken care of him, but he wasn't. He had been too good at destroying evidence of his crimes, he had found the right lawyers to defend him... More importantly, he had given death glares to the right people at the right time. Instead, he had only been given a twenty year sentence which, over time, with the proper nudges here and there, had resulted in a ten-year early release. He was free to do as he pleased as long as he put up with their psychological following, and the psychologist was easy to manipulate.

Of course, the spell in the cells had deprived him of any efficient contacts within the milieu he had once bathed in. His talents too had been slightly dulled from lack of use, his mind having found as only challenge the prison politics to which he owed his early release. So when back out on the streets, his first order of business had been to decide whether or not he should try and re-enter his milieu of choice, or lie low for a time.

And let there be no mistake here, at no point in his incarceration did Gin ever feel any remorse for his many crimes. He never remembered the faces of the people he killed. He never had nightmares full of guilt. For him, it had all been nothing more nor less than a way of life, a profession. One he had been damn good at, and one that, he knew, offered him much more than any other career would have done, both financially and mentally.

He would have readily returned to his old ways, had he not been following the enthusiasm with which some detectives had been efficiently tackling crime after crime, ring after ring. He could not afford to return into custody just yet, merely because some familiar crime fighter had recognised him and called his shenanigans. So Gin decided to put his criminal past behind for a time and find some other form of employment that might satisfy his talents.

As luck would have it, it did not take long for him to come across the young man responsible for his arrest, for the position he ended up employed in brought him into contact with _her_.

From his couch, the man now known as Jin looked morosely at the picture frame standing on the table next to him. The piles of paper had somehow obscured half the picture from where he was sitting, but he could still see the silhouette of the woman depicted, her smile.

She had not smiled back then. She had stared at him in silent horror for a split second, before clutching her arms and giving him that half-hearted smirk, as had always been her reflex when seeing him before. The first conversation then had remained quite civil, and they both took leave without causing a fuss. He had not been surprised to find that Sherry had reconverted from the deadly scientist they had made of her. Nor was he in any way astonished to find that in the following week, a certain Kudo had been made aware of his early release and was investigating it. Gin was not worried. As long as he committed no offence post-release, all the boy could do was point fingers at the prison officials involved. In fact he wished the detective a lot of fun in doing so... Although he did regret Kudo's making an unexpected housecall to remind him of the kid's eagle-eye and sharp wit.

As time passed, Gin found himself less and less concerned in finding an opening back into the world of organised crime, and more and more interested in exchanging quips with a certain young woman. He had known the world of riches, and found that he needed no more than what would pay him a respectable living and the odd bonus to take care of his too-long-neglected Porsche. He had known the world of thrills and easy women, and strangely found that they no longer had the appeal they once held.

Instead he found himself dreaming of a more tranquil life, one like hers, one that involved her.

If there was one word one could not use of Gin, it was "failure"; but it was Jin that ended up reaching their goal. After four years of sarcastic jabs, sharp remarks and the odd teasing flirt, Jin Kurosaki had successfully put his ring on Shiho Miyano's finger.

_Even though he had killed her sister._

It had not been till now, however, that the full realization of what this fact meant hit him.

The snow was swirling outside and the wind rattling the shutters. His car was shivering in their garage as he pulled out from his pocket a small piece of cloth. It was pink. The colour of fresh blood melting snow. He could still remember standing on a roof, outdoors, in that very same weather. It had been her blood staining the snow that night. He had been intent on killing her. Slowly. Whether or not she answered his queries. He had wanted full compensation for the embarrassment she had caused him before. Now Jin was squirming from the shame he felt for what he had done that night.

A small mewling sound roused him from the couch, but that night was still very much in his thoughts as he left the living room for the bedroom. There he flung the pink cloth, a sock, on top of the dresser before leaning over the cot nearby. The small cries did not stop till he had picked up the infant emitting them and started rocking it in his arms. It was a baby girl. His baby girl. He quickly checked if she was in need of a change or prone to fever, before gently caressing her cheek. It still amazed him how powerless such a small being could make him feel. It had been over a week now since she had come home with her mother from the hospital. To think that he had nearly killed the woman that would become her mother...  
Satisfied that all the child had needed was reassurance to go back to sleep, and not another bottle, Jin placed her gently back into the cot, next to her sibling.

Twins.

Jin had never had a sibling. He had never been that close to his parents either. The strongest relationship he had ever had with anyone before Shiho had been with his second, Vodka... And even then, it had not been that close.

Gin had never really understood back then why Akemi Miyano had done all she did, just "for her sister". He had not been able to relate when Sherry had stopped work demanding answers about her sibling's demise. No.

But if it was anything like what he felt for the two infant girls now residing below his roof...

_He had killed her sister. He had killed their aunt._

His heart heavy but his step tender, Jin went to sit on the bed, next to his sleeping wife. His left hand drifted over Shiho's scattered auburn locks as he watched her breathe, gently, her sleep undisturbed by the nightmares he had known her to have.

A quiet murmur left his lips as he bent to kiss her forehead.  
"Could you ever forgive me?"

**FIN.**


End file.
